


Just A Touch of The Flu

by curlypeakism



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M, Gen, Napfic, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 13:00:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15752175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlypeakism/pseuds/curlypeakism
Summary: Little Chamaco is sick, Tio is tired, and Imelda comes to the rescue. Set in Teacher!Au.





	Just A Touch of The Flu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [death_frisbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/death_frisbee/gifts), [im_fairly_witty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_fairly_witty/gifts), [Upperstories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upperstories/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Way You Keep Me Guessing: Coco Teacher AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13547295) by [death_frisbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/death_frisbee/pseuds/death_frisbee), [im_fairly_witty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_fairly_witty/pseuds/im_fairly_witty). 



> so i have fallen in literal love with coco and the teacher au!! and i wanted imector plus lil sick miguel. the latter was a much less substantial part than i wanted it to be, but i'm trying to get back into writing and writing solo again slowly so You Know How It Be. pls look forward to more of this!

Usually, Imelda’s arrival into Ernesto and Hector’s apartment was met by Miguel happily crying her name, and even sometimes all sixty pounds of (newly!) nine year old boy crashing into her in a hug.

 

However, on this day, there was no hug or yell as Imelda came in, trying to shut the door as quietly as possible and holding several grocery bags. In the living area, Ernesto was tersely typing away on his laptop with a surgical mask and gloves on in the armchair.

 

“Where are they?” Imelda asked.

 

Ernesto gingerly lowered the mask on his face with one gloved finger. “They have been quarantined into the little  _ chamaco _ ’s room until further notice or confirmation of no vocally hazardous symptoms.” He responded, before resuming his furious typing.

 

Imelda rolled her eyes, but continued down the hall with her bags and into Miguel’s room.

 

It felt empty with no records playing or guitar lessons happening. Hector was sitting on Miguel’s bed, face creased with anxiety as he laid a cold washcloth over the sleeping boy’s forehead.

 

“ _ Hola.  _ How is he?” Imelda whispered, setting the bags onto the floor and sitting at the end of the bed.

 

“ _ Ay,  _ better than this morning. He hasn’t thrown up in an hour. But he ruined a blanket this morning, and my sheets and his sheets are now in the wash.” Hector responded.

 

She made a quiet noise of sympathy, lifting the washcloth to place the back of her hand on his forehead. Hot, but not terribly concerning. The boy stirred and opened his eyes.

 

“ _ Mama _ ?” He said hoarsely. Something in Imelda’s stomach twinged, and her throat caught.

 

“Oh,  _ Miguelito. _ ” She whispered, removing her hand and resting the washcloth back on his forehead. She went to go into the bag she’d left, when she spotted the half full can of 7-Up sitting in his nightstand.

 

“ _ Ay, dios mío.  _ Really, Hector?”

 

“It’s what Elena used to do for me. I didn’t know what to do and it was the only thing he wasn’t throwing back up.” Hector responded, wincing as if Imelda’s disapproving glare was physically hurting him.

 

“Well, just this once won’t hurt.” She took out two boxes, one tall and one small. Imelda took a thin finger and ran it under the lid of the larger one, shaking out a bottle of children’s medicine. “Try to sit up, Miguel. Open up - I’m sorry if this doesn’t taste very nice.”

 

“It’s okay.” He whispered, propping himself. She handed him the little plastic cup, and watched him take it, grimacing and shaking his head as he laid back down onto the pillows covered in soccer balls. Imelda opened the second box and got out the jar of Vapo-Rub, taking some onto her fingers and rubbing it onto the boy’s thin chest in circles. Consciously or subconsciously, she found herself humming a little, until the boy’s eyes closed again and his breath steadied.

 

“You never sing.” Hector whispered, leaning into her shoulder.

 

“Humming is  _ not  _ singing.” 

 

“Mmm. Thank you.” He sniffled and nuzzled his face into her neck. She looked down at him.

 

“You aren’t getting sick too, are you?”

 

“Nuh. Tired.”

 

“I suppose it’s a good thing I have substitutes lined up through the end of the week. Come on,  _ levantate, dormilón. _ ”

 

Imelda supported Hector onto his still bare bed, lowering him onto his mess of pillows and pulling a thin blanket on top of him. “What about Miguel?” He mumbled sleepily, drawing the cover closer despite himself.

 

“I’ll watch Miguel. You rest.”

 

“Mmm. I love you. So does Miguel.”

 

“I love Miguel too.” She responded cheekily, brushing back the hair from Hector’s brow to plant a quick chaste kiss on his forehead. “Hopefully, you’re getting a fever to blame that on.”

 

Or, hopefully not. But she had a sick little boy to worry about right now.


End file.
